Comanche Vow. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      “Elaina?”

      She glanced up and realized he’d been watching her, probably wondering why she had zoned out. “Yes?”

      He trapped her gaze, his stare intense. “Do you want to go for a walk? Maybe help feed the horses?”

      With a sudden jump in her heartbeat, she told herself to relax, to not look away. She couldn’t continue to avoid him, and dancing around those dark, penetrating eyes was simply rude.

      “Do you think I need a jacket?” she asked, deciding to walk with him.

      “Maybe. I don’t think it’s cold out, but you might.” He sent her a boyish grin. “You’ve got that California blood.”

      And he had a charming smile, a bit more crooked than Grant’s had been. “I’ll get a sweater.” She went to her room and returned with a lightweight wrap. She’d meant to smile back at him, but she couldn’t. Her attraction to Grant had started with his teasing grin.

      The air was brisk and clean, with mountains in the distance. They passed Nick’s workshop and headed toward the barn. She noticed a fenced arena and a small, circular pen. Equestrian additions, she assumed, Nick had made to the property. Grant had described his childhood homestead as a wasteland, but Elaina thought it was pretty. The soil shimmered with flecks of gold, and a cluster of trees was shedding winter leaves. She could picture snow blanketing the earth, just enough to make the holidays come alive.

      “Do you ride?” Nick asked.

      “I used to rent horses in the Hollywood Hills, but it’s been ages. Since high school, I guess.“

      “Somehow I can’t see connecting with nature in Hollywood. That place is weird.”

      Elaina had to laugh. He sounded like a big, biased country boy. “It was near Griffith Park, so it’s nice up there. But I suppose your opinion of Tinseltown is accurate enough. Some people call it Hollyweird.”

      This time he laughed, a rich, smooth baritone. She liked the friendly sound, but when he leaned closer and bumped her shoulder, her heart picked up speed. A slice of hair fell across his forehead, and she realized it wasn’t secured with gel. Nick’s hair was simply wet from a recent shower and drying naturally in the morning air.

      Suddenly she couldn’t stop herself from asking the question that had plagued her for two years.

      “Nick?” She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Why did you cut your hair?”

      He stared at her for a moment. “Because of Grant,” he said quietly.

      She released a shaky breath. “Because that’s the way he wore his hair?”

      “No. It’s a Comanche practice.” His eyes turned a darker shade of brown—a deeper, lonelier color. “My brother died. I’m mourning him.”

      Elaina felt instantly shamed. She should have figured it out on her own. She should have known. Hadn’t she seen something similar in movies? Indians maiming themselves when a loved one died—cutting their skin, their hair? She looked at Nick and wondered if he’d taken a knife to himself, as well. If there were scars somewhere on his body.

      “Does it help?” she asked. “Does it take the pain away?”

      He closed his eyes, and as the wind blew around him in a silent flutter, Elaina waited for him to answer.

      But he didn’t. He just stood, with his eyes closed. Stood while her heart pounded in an unsteady rhythm.

      “Nick?” she pressed. If there was a way to ease the pain that came with losing Grant, then Elaina needed to know.

      Two

      Nick didn’t know what to say. Nothing helped, nothing made living without his brother more bearable. Yes, he’d cut his hair, honoring the old way, but keeping it short was more than a mourning ritual. It was a daily reminder of what he’d done, of his involvement in Grant’s death. And so were the marks on his chest, the places where he’d shed his own blood. The wounds had long since healed, but the pain and guilt wouldn’t go away.

      He opened his eyes and gazed at Elaina. She watched him, her heart on her sleeve. She was hurting, too. Trying to find a way to cope with being a widow, with raising a troubled daughter.

      “No,” he said. “It doesn’t help. But it’s part of my culture. And I’ve always followed the early practices. The best I can, anyway. Sometimes it’s difficult living in modern times and adhering to the old ways.”

      Elaina tilted her head. “Grant was concerned about being stereotyped, but other than that, he rarely talked about being Indian. It didn’t seem to be a major issue in his life.”

      But it was, Nick thought. Grant had turned away from their heritage long ago. Yet on that dark summer night, he’d come back to his roots. He’d died in Nick’s arms, asking Nick to take his place the way a Comanche brother would have done centuries before.

      He looked at Elaina, knowing how much Grant had loved her. And now it was Nick’s responsibility to keep her happy and safe, to provide for her well-being.

      She was pretty. Nick couldn’t deny how soft her skin seemed or how daylight played upon her hair, intensifying subtle copper hues. What man wouldn’t find her attractive? She had long, lean curves, the kind of body that made a pair of blue jeans seem sleek yet sinful.

      Was he supposed to sleep with her? Make love to her on their wedding night?

      Nick jammed his hands in his pockets. Of course he was. Sex was part of the marriage tradition. A natural, normal, healthy physical release.

      And one that made him nervous as hell. Elaina was his brother’s wife, the woman Grant had loved.

      “Are you all right?” she asked, placing her hand on his shoulder.

      “Yeah. I’m fine. I just miss my brother.“

      “Me, too.”

      They stood in the middle of the yard, their gazes locked, the morning air scented with horses and hay. A loose strand of Elaina’s hair blew around her face, breaking free from the ladylike confinement.

      Her eyes were so blue, so emotional, that Nick wanted to kiss her.

      He wanted to kiss his brother’s wife.

      Because the thought confused him, he stepped back. She was beautiful, and Grant had asked him to take care of her, but somehow she still seemed forbidden. A woman who was his, yet wasn’t.

      He resumed walking. “We better get the horses watered and fed.”

      She stayed beside him. “Just tell me what to do.”

      They reached the barn, and he led her to the feed room. While loading a wheelbarrow, he explained that he kept a stockpile of hay for colder months.

      “It doesn’t seem like winter,” she commented. “I was hoping for a little snow. You know, just enough to play in.”

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